


The Shrine Of Resurrection

by Natasha_Rostova



Series: Of Glorfindel’s Rebirth [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, No Romance, kinda angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 18:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18530773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natasha_Rostova/pseuds/Natasha_Rostova
Summary: The Shrine Of Resurrection is where elves are reborn, although, even the finest warriors can crumble under the weight of resurrection.





	The Shrine Of Resurrection

**Author's Note:**

> A super quick drabble I wrote about Glorfindel’s resurrection, based on an artwork I did! Link is in the end note! Thanks for reading!

Cold. 

That was the first thought that had wormed him out of unconsciousness, he was so cold. Freezing in fact. Why was he so cold? Glorfindel could think of nothing but cold as he lay there.

Lay where?

Why was everything. So. Fuzzy? And heavy. His limbs were so heavy.  
Glorfindel groaned. Perhaps this was a prank.

Had Ecthelion moved his bed in the fountain again?

There was water lapping at his limbs. However. It felt. Different. Heavy. Everything was so heavy.

And sore.

Glorfindel could not find any energy to move. Everything was too, blurred. 

“Glorfindel.” His eyes shot open.

Fire.

Everything felt like fire.

All at once energy surged through him. Zapping through his body as a strike of lighting. Everything hurt. Burned. His chest burned. Fire. With every choked breath, Glorfindel’s chest was further consumed by the fire. Coughing hurt worse, and blue liquid sputtered out of his lungs with every rasp. 

“It’s okay! It’s okay! Just breathe.” A hand on his arm, and another rubbing circles into his back. 

Where was he? What was going on? Harsher than he intended, Glorfindel ripped his arm from the grasp of the stranger. Where….where…

The water below him was not water at all. It was glowing. Bright blue, the pool he was laying it lit up the whole room. His vision was blurred. Yet he could make out robed figures sitting next to him closer than he would have liked. He rubbed at his eyes harshly. 

Glorfindel pushed himself up, forcing his burning limbs to support him. Shaking. Why were his legs shaking so bad? 

The room was dark, lit only by the glowing pool in which Glorfindel was standing. It was hard to make out anything besides the elves around him. Clothed in black robes they stared at him with wide eyes. Glorfindel wheezed before quickly returning to a coughing fit. What was going on? Where-

Suddenly Glorfindel saw it all. 

A massive stone statue to his left. Blindfolded. Layered robes, long hair and a complex halo. 

Mandos.

The Shrine Of Mandos. 

Why was he-

Falling. He was falling. A shout of surprise lodged in his throat. Warmth on the back of his neck. A massive headache. Screams above him.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

And then a sickening crack.

And then.

Nothing. 

Or maybe there was light? 

It was all too much. Glorfindel grasps. Too much flooding his head at once. The war call. Smoke in his lungs. Blood stained swords and broken bows. It all hurt. 

Ecthelion.

Where was Ecthelion?

With a sharp intake of breath, the memory fled. As quickly as he had seen all the pain Arda could hold, it was gone. Glorfindel couldn’t take it. It was all so much. Everything was so. 

He had died. 

He had fallen. 

And died.

The room was spinning. Ceiling and floor seemed to blend together. With short heaving breaths, Glorfindel faltered, everything was so hazy. He could barely register the hands of the elves rushing to aid him. Kneeling in the pool to help him sit upright. Glorfindel felt worse than before. The burning was replaced by an ache. A deep ache in his heart. He was so tired. Another cough, although this time, blood mixed with his sharp wheeze. 

“What….what happened to me?” He breathed. Liar. Liar, liar, liar. His own thoughts betrayed him. He already knew. 

He had died.

Had.

Had died.

Past tense.

Why was he back? What happened in Valinor? Had he come back willingly? Why? Why why why?

Could he not be granted this rest? Glorfindel just wanted to rest. His chest continued to ache. Although it was impossible to tell if it was genuine pain, or a restless heart. 

The elf from before took his hand once again. Glorfindel could not find the energy to recoil. Instead, he continued to rasp for air. Why, why, why.

“You have been returned to us.” His voice was soft. Through the thick haze surrounding his thoughts, Glorfindel could still note the underlying tone of pity. “It’s okay,” It wasn’t. “You don’t have to think everything through right away.” The elf smiled. The smile was sad, with something deep laced into it. Something more complicated than pity. 

Maybe it was understanding.

“Let’s just start with something simple okay?” His eyes were kind. There was something soothing about his presence. Despite how young he looked, he seemed knowledgeable. And most of all, trustworthy. For now. 

Glorfindel nodded. The elf smiled.

“My name is Elrond.” Elrond. Elrond. The named seemed familiar somehow, as if known in a dream. Before he could dwell on it too long, Elrond continued. “I am lord of Rivendell. House of Healing.” Healing? Rivendell? Where was that? Glorfindel shook his head. None of this made sense. How many years had passed? Why was his memory so fuzzy? 

“It’s okay.” As if reading Glorfindel’s mind, Elrond soothed him instantly. “Don’t think too hard right now. You must be tired.” Glorfindel was tired. And if Elrond was indeed a healer, Rivendell was exactly where he wanted to go. 

“Let’s just get you out of this dreary place first.” Elrond offered him a brighter smile this time. Glorfindel didn’t want to move. The weight of Arda seemed to crush him. He just sighed. Despite this, all at once the elves helped him to his shaking feet. Glorfindel held back a yelp of pain. Although there was the absence of fleshy wounds, all of his muscles ached. Head pounding, Glorfindel swallowed his fear, swallowed his pride, and leaned into the elves for support

Elrond once again offered words of encouragement and kindness, yet these fell into the background. How long had he been… been….been dead? What happened to Gondolin? Did they win? 

Win. 

Did war have any winners? If Glorfindel died. Did that mean he lost? Did his later resurrection mean he won? Who won if everyone died? 

Mandos. Judge. Lord of the Dead. He was the winner. 

Despite the blindfold, Glorfindel could feel the statute’s gazing burning into his back.

**Author's Note:**

> Might mess around a turn this into a series about Glorfindel adjusting after his rebirth.  
> Let me know if that’s something you’d like to see!  
> I know he’s a bit ill in this one, but I kinda want to write him a bit out of character. He just woke up from death and crazy trauma, he can’t be a brave and lighthearted warrior right away.  
> I like to imagine all the memories come back slowly, as to not overwhelm the subject. I talk more about it in my artwork Shrine Of Resurrection! (Which can be found. Here! https://www.deviantart.com/natrdraws/art/Shrine-of-Resurrection-793986478)


End file.
